


redeemed from the earth

by acesam



Category: In the Flesh (TV), Supernatural
Genre: Gen, an in the flesh x supernatural crossover, every show needs an in the flesh crossover fight me, kind of, the major character death is at the beginning, zombie apocalypse AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-19
Updated: 2014-07-19
Packaged: 2018-02-09 14:18:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1986168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acesam/pseuds/acesam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And the dead shall rise again, incorruptible.</p>
            </blockquote>





	redeemed from the earth

**Author's Note:**

> An In The Flesh/Supernatural crossover because why the hell not?  
> If you haven't watched the british series In The Flesh yet then you need to. Right now.  
> If this show doesn't get a third series I will scream. And cry. And maybe trash a few things.

"In a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trumpet: for the trumpet shall sound, and the dead shall rise again incorruptible: and we shall be changed."

- 1 CORINTHIANS 15:52

 

 

You don't notice the sharp pain at the small of your back at first, like something bit you there. It's so small, so minimal, that you would never predict how much of a chaos it can do to your body. Your head feels like it's slowly shutting down, like the life is slowly drained from you.

 

Your brother screams at you, calls you Sammy with a shaking voice but you can't answer him, your tongue feels like a stone in your mouth. Your whole body is dragging you down, but Dean keeps you upright.

 

You're vaguely aware that he's talking to you, he's telling you to hold on, _you're gonna be as good as new, Sammy_.

 

The last thought you have is that your brother smells faintly of the leather of the Impala.

 

//

 

You die and for the first time, you feel home. Life can no longer tear your poor soul open and bleed you dry. You're safe.

 

Your brother buries you, doesn't burn your remains, because you never wanted to be a hunter. You always wanted to be normal.

 

At least in death, you finally are.

 

//

 

This is the important part, the part you don't want to remember, the part everyone will ask you about.

 

Because you wake up.

 

The first thing you're aware of is that it's dark. You're in a coffin. Naturally, you think you've been buried alive. Your body reacts accordingly, goes into full panic mode, and you scratch at the wood helplessly until your fingernails are red and raw. You feel terrified.

 

(Everyone always claims how you don't feel anything in your untreated state, how that gives the living the right to treat you like they did, but that's not true. You do feel. You feel fear. You feel exhilaration.

 

You feel hunger.)

 

//

 

The world gets divided into two. There's you, the dead, the monsters, the _zombies_.

 

Then there's the living. The frightful, the winners, your food.

 

//

 

You don't know how many people you tear apart, how many brains you eat. You lost count a long time ago.

 

Sometimes they cry, fight you with their bare hands. Sometimes they beg, try to appeal to emotions that have been long drained out of you through the wound in your back. They always scream.

 

During those times, it is easier to pretend that you don't know what the words mean. Afterwards it will be easier to simply say that you didn't care.

 

They're only food.

 

//

 

You're in the woods, looking for prey, when you see him. The human has a gun trained on you, but he doesn't shoot. The gun in his hand trembles slightly while you stare at each other.

 

Your brain cells stopped working a long time ago, but still you can't help but feel something familiar to the way he holds it, the way his eyes are bright green and shine with tears.

 

"Sammy."

 

He calls to you, but you don't know what the word means anymore. You don't know who you used to be, only who you are now. And right now you are hungry.

 

So you growl at him, flash your blood stained teeth (blood and black mixed together) and start running towards him.

 

Someone shoots you in the leg, you don't stop growling.

 

//

 

You're in a cage.

 

The human is there, watching you, speaking to you in words that don't make sense to you anymore. They go through one ear into a dead and rotting brain and go right out of the other. The human doesn't seem to mind.

 

_sammysammysammysammysamsammysamsammysammyohgodsammysammyplease_

 

He tries to touch you once, through the holes in your cell. You snap at him with your teeth.

 

You know you should feel something, you should feel terrified at what this human can do to you, but something about him makes you relax, grounds you.

 

//

 

"You _shot_ him!" The human keeps pointing to you, to the wound in your leg that stopped bleeding black. "How could you shoot him?!"

 

"Son, I know this is hard but it ain't Sam." There's another human there, an older one. Older ones are easier to hunt, but their brains taste bitter and worn out. You don't understand a single word they're saying. "This .... thing may look like Sam but deep down, it's rotten. It's dead. It's a zombie, for Christ's Sake! Your ... _our_ Sammy died in Cold Oak."

 

"I know that, Bobby, don't you for one fucking second doubt I don't know that! But what if there's a cure, huh?" The older human laughs. You try to imitate him, but the only thing that leaves your mouth is black goo. "I know, what do those rich doctors know about a zombie apocalypse, I know! But ... maybe they're right. Maybe we can bring him back."

 

"How, huh? How exactly do we bring back the dead? With fucking _medicine_? I ain't buying it. Sorry, son."

 

The human gets closer to you, closer to the spot where you're standing in your filthy cell, and looks at you. Green eyes, blonde hair. You _know_ this.

 

"He's just sick, Bobby." His fingers touch the metal and for the first time, you don't try to bite him. "He's just sick."

 

//

 

You get sent away, away from the human, to another cage. The humans there are more aggressive, they poke you more, they keep feeding you with medicine through a gaping hole in your neck. Sometimes they try to talk. You growl at them, but you're also tired. So very tired.

 

Slowly, your brain starts working again. You can put two and two together again. You can also remember again.

 

You wish you didn't.

 

//

 

The first word you speak after being treated is something that has been on the tip of your tongue since you died. Something no one in this place will understand, but it doesn't matter. They don't matter.

 

 _Dean_.

 

//

 

You're a partially deceased syndrome sufferer and what you did in your untreated state was not your fault.

 

That's what they're telling you, at least. You can't really believe it. You killed people. Doesn't matter if you were sick or not.

 

 _Partially deceased_. Doesn't sound quite right. Aren't you partially alive just as much as you are dead?

 

There's therapy and then there is the medicine and then another therapy session. The days keep getting longer and longer. There is no joy in the treatment center, there is only white, white clothes, white rooms.

 

There are mirrors in the bathrooms (you never really liked mirrors). Every time you wash yourself you stare at your reflection (your supposed new face, your _gift_ ), gaze into rotten eyes and an ashen face.

 

Bobby should have shot you in brain.

 

(Your father would have shot you.)

 

//

 

The medicine doesn't work. It can only help you this much. They can't make you human or alive again, but they can give you the illusion. You don't mind it that much than some others in the treatment center. Afterall, you're quite experienced with having the illusion of normalcy.

 

Sometimes, the wound in your leg still leaks black goo, eventhough pain is still foreign to you. The bullet must have destroyed some veins, because you still can't walk properly without limping a bit. It is the only punishment you've received for your murder spree (they tell you it wasn't your fault, but it _was_ , they don't know what you did, what you're capable of). If you reopen the wound sometimes, tear open the sloppily done stitches, well, the doctors don't need to know that.

 

Some days, you wonder if Dean knows you're here. If they've told him and if, after this, you can finally go back to normal.

 

Of course, you've heard the stories of patients getting picked up from their family only to be thrown out again because the pain was too great. Your brother would never do that, though, at least you hope he wouldn't.

 

//

 

They tell you that Dean will come pick you up. They take you to another center, another white room, give you make up and a pat on the back. If you were alive, your hands would be trembling while you apply the cover up. As it is, there is only the dull feeling in your chest, your tongue feels thick and heavy again. (Maybe he won't come. You wouldn't hold it against him if he didn't.

 

It would be better if he didn't come.)

 

//

 

The second you open the door to reveal your brother (an older version of your brother, oh god, has it really been 5 years?), standing there with a brochure in his hands and tears in his eyes, you realize that you're not ready. Oh god, you're not ready.

 

"Sammy, you ... I ..." Dean is just as nervous as you are, looking more insecure than you've ever seen him. His hands keep fumbling with brochure, like he's unsure what to do, what to say. He glances downwards, towards your left leg and towards the bag of clothes on the floor (the clothes you rose in, the clothes he probably dressed you in).

 

You in- and exhale slowly. Breathing isn't really necessary for you any more, but it calms you down because of the humanness of it all. It seems to have the same effect on your brother. "Hi, Dean," you say, to break the suffocating silence and it feels like a wall falls inside your brother. Suddenly he's grabbing you, taking a hold of the thin fabric of your shirt, and hugs you to him.

 

His breathing comes out ragged next to your ear but you don't feel it. You don't feel anything any more.

 

You hug him back, let your chin rest on his shoulder (the make up smears the fabric of his jacket a bit), and try to imagine smelling the leather of the Impala.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'll probably write a second part to this, maybe. That's likely going to take a while, though, because first I'd have to figure out how the Rising happened in the States, since we only know of how it happened in England.


End file.
